Walter Mosley - 47

"Sleep is the last thing you need, Charlie Baylor. Every time I sen' some'un to look for you they find you nappin' under some cotton bush."

The slaves all laughed then. I could see in Charlie's face that he didn't like being made fun of but I also knew that Mud Albert was free to say anything he wanted as long as Champ Noland was there to back him up.

So John and I were given the lower bunk nearest Mud Albert's brass bed. Champ went around chaining everybody to the bolts in the floor. After a while Mr. Stewart came in to check our chains. All he did was go to the foot of each cot and shake the chains. He didn't even notice that there was a new boy in the cabin.

After Mr. Stewart was gone Albert snuffed out the lanterns and so there was only one candle for light. He took this candle and came to sit next to our bunk. "Tall John is it?" he asked my friend. "You bettah believe it, brothah," John replied. His smiling teeth flashed in the flickering light.

"You evah hear tell of the one dey call High John the Conqueror?" Albert asked.

"You mean the trickster from Africa who makes fun'a the mastah an' who means to free alia the slaves an' bring'em back home?" John answered and asked.

"That's the one. They say that High John was sent by ancient African gods to bring us slaves back home to where our mothers' is still waitin' for us," Albert said. "If'n I put high in yo' name instead'a tall dat might jes' be you."

"I haven't come here to free the slaves, Mud Albert," John said, no longer joking or making light. "I came here to find Forty-seven. He has more interest in freeing slaves than do I."

These words made Albert bend forward and peer closely at my new friend.

"Be careful, boy," Albert said then. "You might think you so skinny dat you kin slip through any crack but you can get cut down by the reaper jes' like all the rest."

"I heah ya, boss," John replied, once again smiling and cracking wise.

"This ain't no foolin', boy," Albert said in his most serious tone. "These white folks'll kill a smart-mouf nigger like you an' then sit down to Sunday suppah."

The smile on John's face faded then. But he didn't look scared. It was more like he felt sorry for Albert's fear.

Albert walked over to his bed then. I saw his dark form for a moment and then he blew out the candle, making the room pitch black. After that the men all fell asleep quickly. They were tired from their labors and the cabin was soon filled with the sounds of snores and heavy breathing. In only a few minutes it seemed that I was the only one left awake.

I should have been asleep too. I had worked hard that day too. But I was wide awake because of Tall John. Every day before in the slave quarters was the same. Up before dawn. Work, work, work and then work harder. And then back to the bunk, where sleep came down like a hammer. We never laughed before sleep or had conversations with Master on a country path.

John was something new and this lit a fire in my mind that would not go out.

I wanted to talk to John but I knew that you never woke up a sleeping slave. Slaves needed their rest. The reason they called us lazy was that we worked so hard and we never got enough sleep so we were always tired.

I looked at the sky through the cracks in the ceiling, wondering when sleep would come.

At that moment I heard a silvery musical note. It sounded like a tiny bell and lasted for two breaths. Then John propped himself up on one elbow. He was awake too. "Let me see your hands," he said. I did as he bade me, happy that he wanted to talk. I had never met a colored person who talked like he did. Not even the manservant, Fred Chocolate, was as well spoken or articulate as the new boy. Tall John even put Master Tobias to shame with his silver tongue.

I held my hands out in the darkness, palms up. John traced his slender fingers across my palms and down my wrists.

"The infection is bad," he whispered. "If it isn't taken care of you'll die."

"But I don't want the horse doctor to cut off my hands."

"He won't." John let go of my wrists and moved to get

out of the cot.

"Don't," I said. "If Mud Albert sees you, you be in

trouble."

"Don't worry, Forty-seven. Everybody on the entire plantation will sleep until morning. A gunshot wouldn't waken them from their beds."

Upon saying these words John reached into his pocket and came out with a metal tube that looked something like a tin cigar. There were red and green and blue beads up and down the sides of the tube that shone almost as if there was a tiny candle behind each one. On the top was a black button like a brimless hat.

"Did you hear a tiny chime?" he asked me. "I sho did."

"That was my little sleep machine here." Then John hunched over toward our chains and I pulled down under my shirt. Slaves didn't have blankets in the summertime. If it got cold you just had to use whatever you had to wear to keep you warm; that and your

bedmate.

It was never comfortable in the slave quarters; I had always known that. Flimsy walls that let in the winds, chig-gers and fleas and ticks biting all the time; no water from the time you went to sleep until the next day when you took your first break from picking cotton. If you were sick the slave boss called you lazy. If you were scared they made fun of you and then whipped you so that you'd be more afraid of them. We were fed sour grain boiled with bitter greens. If there was meat it was half rotten and field slaves never got milk.

Some of the slaves that had come from Africa, or had been around those that did, knew how to steal blood from cows and weren't afraid to eat fat worms and other bugs. But no matter what we did our lot was a hard one. Our hearts and souls were forged in the furnace of slavery and we were made so strong that we dragged the entire nation on our skinny backs.

I felt the manacle around my ankle give. Then John jumped out of bed and lit one of the oil lanterns, illuminating the room of sleeping men.

"What you doin', niggah?" I said to the boy called Tall John.

"Neither nigger nor master be," he said. "Get up, Forty-seven, and fight for your life."

Slowly I raised up and looked around. All of the men were sleeping in the cabin. But it was more than just a bunch of men sleeping. It was like in the late fall when Mud Albert would take his secret fermenting jug from its hiding place in the barn and him and Mama Flore would drink from it and fall unconscious just like as if somebody had hit them in the head with a rifle butt.

"What's wrong with them?" I asked my newfound friend.

"There's a place in your brain," John said, touching my forehead with a long thin finger, "that tells you when to sleep. When there's a certain vibration in the air that place

kicks on and you have to stop what you're doing and get a deep rest. I caused that vibration to happen everywhere on the whole plantation with this." John held up the tin cigar. "All I did," he said, "was push this button and everybody within a quarter mile of here fell into a sleep like the

dead."

"Then why ain't we asleep?" I asked. "Because we're special," John said, flashing a grin. "I ain't special," I said. "I ain't got no tin cigar to put peoples t'sleep or tricky words t'git peoples t'laugh. I'm just a nigger wit' bloody hands."

John leaned close to me and said, "Not nigger but man. And you are special, Forty-seven. In your mind and your heart, in your blood. You carry within you the potential of what farty old Plato called the philosopher-king." "Who?" John smiled. "Come," he said.

He grabbed me by the wrist, pulled me out of the cot and toward the door. I followed, afraid that Mud Albert would jump up at any minute. But he didn't and we went out into the yard in front of the cabin.

The night air was filled with the chirps and clicks of insects and the smell of night blooming jasmine. The nearly full moon was wearing a cloud as a belt and stars winked all around. I remembered when I slept in the barn that sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night and look up on a sky like that.